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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24442459">The Pharaoh Parable</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/MulliganFlowers/pseuds/MulliganFlowers'>MulliganFlowers</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Miraculous Ladybug</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Canon Compliant, Character Study, F/M, Referenced Canon Minor Character Death, gabenath mini bang, gabenath mini bang 2020</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 09:28:45</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>14,321</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24442459</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/MulliganFlowers/pseuds/MulliganFlowers</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Gabriel Agreste first hears about the pharaoh parable while attending a funeral feeling empty and defeated. Due to his inability to self reflect, his interpretation of it leads to risky and irrational decisions.<br/>On the other hand, Nathalie has always been a sensible woman. That doesn't mean, however, she doesn't have her own things to realize.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Gabriel Agreste | Papillon | Hawk Moth/Nathalie Sancoeur</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>43</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>45</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>GabeNath Mini Bang 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. The Pharaoh Parable</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">


        <li>
            A translation of

            <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24440395">Притча про фараона</a> by <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/MulliganFlowers/pseuds/MulliganFlowers">MulliganFlowers</a>.
        </li>

    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This was written for <a href="https://gabenathminibang.tumblr.com/">GabeNath Mini Bang 2020</a>.</p><p>Thanks to <a href="https://lorrainingart.tumblr.com/">lorrainingart</a> for their beautiful art you can see <a href="https://lorrainingart.tumblr.com/post/619551060033454080/edit-uploaded-logo-less-photo-by-accident">here</a>.<br/>Thanks to <a href="https://gabriel-fucking-agreste.tumblr.com/">gabriel-fucking-agreste</a> for beta-reading this version and helping to bring this mess of a text to its completion.<br/>Thanks to Nika Leleka for moral support and beta-reading Ukrainian version.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Gabriel Agreste arrives late, when the oration has already ended and the first eulogies have been given. He enters quietly, trying not to call any attention to himself. The church is filled with strangers, and he hopes to recognize none of them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He finds a place in the rear and puts his hands behind his back. His breathing is ragged. The air in the church is stale and full with scents of myrrh and flowers. The widow should be somewhere in this crowded blackness; he examines the stained glass windows.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Monsieur Agreste?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Someone calls out to him. A distant acquaintance. His name is Mr. Kubdel, if he’s not mistaken. He smiles awkwardly to Gabriel, quite distastefully for the occasion.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’ve managed to make it. Amelie thought you won’t come.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was running late.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This is a half-truth. He couldn’t sleep all night; only around 5 AM he stopped trying altogether. He was walking around the room, quietly talking to himself, going through his options over and over again. When it was almost time for the funeral to start, he washed his face, combed his hair and put on a black suit.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can’t stay for too long: I have urgent business in Paris.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, of course.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For a moment Kubdel looks away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I understand what you must be feeling right now…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gabriel feels nothing. There is nothing he could feel. Kubdel goes on talking, but Gabriel misses half of the words. He looks up, back at the stained glass, but he can’t see it anymore. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s a tragedy. And the fact that the body was never found…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gabriel’s face tenses up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Michael, I mean.” Kubdel raises his eyebrows. “He was a good, passionate man, but never knew when to stop. And now, is it even his funeral if the casket is empty?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gabriel looks away. Everything blurs for a moment, then his sight regains its focus. White casket, covered in roses and carnations. A ten year old photo of the deceased. Amelie used to say that there was a similarity between Michael and him, but never specified what exactly it was.</span>
</p><p><span>Her voice is heard over the noise of</span> <span>the crowd. She’s somewhere near, but he doesn’t even look her way.</span></p><p>
  <span>“Yes, probably.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s just like the pharaoh parable. Do you know it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gabriel doesn’t answer, but Kubdel proceeds to tell it anyway. He flounders even in the shortest sentences, pauses a lot, and struggles to find right words at the end. But there’s still something painfully familiar in it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gabriel looks at Kubdel, strains his eyes, but the face in front of him remains blurry and uncertain. He takes off his glasses, starts wiping the lenses.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wait. Repeat the last part.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kubdel repeats. Gabriel slowly nods. When he puts the glasses back, everything becomes clear.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They’ll carry the casket away shortly. You probably want to talk to Amelie now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, probably.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kubdel walks away. Gabriel takes a few determined steps in the direction Amelie should be, but then slows down. He looks around and checks if Kubdel can’t see him anymore. Then he finds a new place in the shadows near the wall.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His breathing is constrained. He fiddles with his ring, stares blankly at the floor.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he looks back, the mortician has already taken all the wreaths off the casket. Four pallbearers take it on their shoulders. It seems almost weightless.</span>
</p><p><span>The doors open and the procession</span> <span>moves outside. He squints his eyes under the sunlight.</span></p><p>
  <span>Now the air feels cooler, but still dry and stifling. The climate is becoming more and more unbearable with each passing year. His breathing is heavy. He reaches for the buttons on his jacket, but then immediately moves his hand back. He tries not to pay attention to the cameras: if somebody looks right into one, the photo won’t be used anywhere.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The pallbearers load the casket into a hearse and fix it in place with belts. One of them gets in the driver’s seat and drives up the road slowly and carefully.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gabriel keeps his distance. There is nobody but strangers around. Bells toll. He gazes away into obscurity, repeating the pharaoh parable in his mind.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Road dust settles on his shoes. The road isn’t steep at all, but every next step feels more difficult than the previous. The sun burns the back of his head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he gets to the top of the hill, most of the people are already there. Everybody is trying to stay further from the grave. The edges are covered with fake grass; the chrome-plated chassis of the lowering mechanism shines in the sun.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hasn’t even noticed how close to the grave he has come to stand. He turns around, intending to hide deeper in the crowd, but at the same moment the priest comes forward. Clenching his teeth, Gabriel stays where he is.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They take the belts off. Four men carry the casket on their shoulders, the fifth one assists with placing it on the stripes of a lowering mechanism. Afterwards, they all quickly disappear in the crowd. The priest finds the right page and starts reading. His intonation is clear, but his words are inaudible.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Somebody behind Gabriel struggles to hold back the tears. Somebody murmurs something to themselves in English. The priest’s speech weaves itself into one monotonous stream. Gabriel can’t turn his gaze away from the casket. It shines so brightly, it almost hurts. His eyes dry up, and the air feels more heated by the minute.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ten minutes pass — or, perhaps, an hour. He puts his hand over his watch, but doesn’t look at it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Everything ends with a choir of one harmonious Amen. Gabriel’s lips part, but he doesn’t say anything.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The casket starts lowering into the grave. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>That’s when Gabriel finally gathers up courage to look at Amelie. She stands right on the opposite side from him. Her son is beside her — with his head down and his hands in his pockets. It seems like she had noticed him quite a while ago. She stares at him for a brief moment, her eyes full of contempt and condemnation, then looks down. He hurries to put his hands behind his back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The empty casket touches the bottom.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He grates his teeth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mourners throw carnations into the grave.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He leaves at the earliest opportunity. His step is rushed and tense as he cuts right across the graveyard, avoiding the main paths. Everything around him is blinding. The sun is heating the back of his head. He closes his eyes, but the casket is still there, a bright white stain on his sight.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In one irritated motion, he unbuttons his jacket. Breathes in. Breathes out. His breathing is rapid. He clenches his fists.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As anger mixes up with fatigue, he loses himself a bit. Feeling estranged, he calls a number on speed dial.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nathalie, pick me up.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The irritation spills into his voice before he realizes it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, sir.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her voice is calm, undisturbed. After the call, there is a sudden silence. The funeral is far away, its sounds are distant and almost unreal. Blotches in his eyes lose their shape, and soon they’re gone altogether.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Anger dissolves in this emptiness, once again leaving nothing behind. He quickens his pace, but yesterday’s insomnia catches up to him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t have to wait long. Nathalie drives up as soon as he reaches the gates.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He gets in the back seat, unintentionally slamming the car door. Natalie clutches the steering wheel, her voice is somewhat worried:</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sir, the train to Paris will be at least three hours late. It’s due to the railroad strike I’ve told you about.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, I know. It doesn’t matter anymore.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His voice is exhausted, but calm. She eases her grip on the wheel a bit.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He takes his jacket off and puts it onto a neighboring seat. She slows down before leaving the parking lot, then speeds up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Their eyes meet for a moment in the rearview mirror before she returns her attention to the road. Gabriel tries once again to recall the pharaoh parable, but the details are mixing up and the words are losing their clarity. He takes the glasses off and rubs his eyes. Everything loses its shape.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Soon he falls asleep.</span>
</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That’s the only possible option.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She stays silent, unable to find the right words. Her lips are pursed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s risky, yes, but I have a plan.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He sounds more confident than he is. He fixes his glasses. She finally finds courage to talk.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What do you want from me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can do everything on my own. I only need you to look after Adrien and keep him safe and out of this. He shouldn’t know anything for now. If something happens, you’ll provide me an alibi.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She breathes in to say something, but then immediately stops herself. Instead, she pauses for a bit before answering.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course, sir, I’ll handle everything.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It may last a few days. If I won’t succeed on the first try, then, maybe, a week. I’ve already got a very clear system in mind. Every piece easily falls into place.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She doesn’t say anything. Her stance is shaky.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you know the pharaoh parable, Nathalie?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Which one exactly?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looks away at the portrait and starts to tell her. He talks calmly and slowly, including all the details he researched. He doesn’t stutter or contradict himself, as if he’s rehearsed. He ends the story, refraining from comments or interpretation. Then, he looks back at Nathalie.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now her eyes are lit with determination.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I understand.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s no smile on his face. He goes down the glass stairs. The portrait moves with a mild screech. Gabriel remembers the combination, but enters it very carefully. The lock clicks, the safe opens. He takes out a small black box, immediately closes the door, moves the portrait back. He holds the box in front of him, notices his hands shaking.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I have only one question, sir.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She comes closer, stops with one foot on the first stairstep.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What if they aren’t there?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gabriel frowns and puts the box in his inside pocket. It feels surprisingly heavy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They must be.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He finds the buttons under the canvas. Some things had to be changed, now he needs to relearn the combinations. He hesitates a bit before pressing. The buttons are stiff.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If I am here, they also must be somewhere.” He puts his hands behind his back. The platform lowers him into the dark.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When a door above him closes, he lets out a breath.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p>
<hr/><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Through the window Gabriel sees the car driving away. He himself can’t believe how fast he got used to Adrien leaving for school every morning. How fast he got used to living his life in constant waiting. How fast he got used to the choir of their muffled voices crying, wailing, groaning above his heart.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If he tries to, he can hear his son in there. Gates close. Suddenly, there is nothing but silence. He is left alone. The absence returns to him once again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s spinning his stylus between his fingers, unable to touch the screen. Everything is blurry, everything is missing. He touches the brooch, but all feelings are muffled, distant, almost unreal. He is surrounded by nothingness.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He moves stiffly. He comes down the glass stairs and leaves the atelier, trying to hear the sound of his own steps. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s true that in the last weeks he has learned how to dissociate, how to block what is the closest and look farther outside. There is no place for joy in this house of sorrow, so why does the absence surprise him so much?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He goes to the dining room door, opens it wide and stops at the doorway. He slowly looks around the room, as if hoping to find somebody there. But all the chairs are empty, some of them have never been used. He walks along the table. In the morning light, he can see the dust settling.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The clock shows half past ten. The pendulum is swinging, but he can’t hear any ticking. He looks carefully, but the minute arrow doesn’t seem to move. The family portrait looks wrong in the mirror. He can’t even recognize his own face. It’s hard to tell whether his hair has really turned so gray or if it is just a play of light.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he exits the room, he leaves the door open.</span>
</p><p><span>He goes up the stairs. The marble swallows up all the sound, his shoes barely touch</span> <span>the surface. He goes to his bedroom. The air inside is foggy. Light can’t come through. In one abrupt motion, he draws the curtains, and the air fills with dust. He must have stopped caring, when he got used to things.</span></p><p>
  <span>He opens the window, but it’s all quiet outside. He can hear only a barely noticeable draught whistling in the cracks. This weak sound soon disappears in the white noise of the absence. He touches the brooch once again, pressing it closer to his chest, searching for the smallest reason not to be there. There is nothing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He leaves, walks past the mourning portrait and to Adrien’s room. Once again stops before the door, waiting for something. He listens closely, but can’t hear anything.</span>
</p><p><span>The door opens silently. Gabriel goes straight to the grand piano, sitting down carefully. His fingers instinctively find the position</span> <span>— old habits, but he stops abruptly on the first chord. His left hand slowly remembers the counterpart in the bass. The right hand enters late.</span></p><p>
  <span>He stops. He starts slowly from the very beginning. Bach has a strict logic behind everything. E — G — A — B — A — B. If there is a chord, there is a resolution. He soon finds the right rhythm, but slows down a bit on thirty-seconds.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He stops. He starts from the very beginning, this time with more confidence. It’s only a matter of logical sense and mechanical memory. He straightens up the rhythm. The tempo becomes closer to how it should be. Then, his left hand slips.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He stops. He starts from the very beginning. The melody and the counterpoint — every part falls into its place, if you know the system, if you know the polyphony. It’s all quite clear, actually. Fingers on the left hand move skillfully through the sixteenths. Fingers on the right hold the chord, then lead the melody. Chord. Melody. Chord. Melody. It resolves to E minor. He plays the same few bars over and over again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He stops. He starts from the very beginning. He has played this prelude countless times before. Every day he hears Adrien practicing it for hours. But the hand slips once again and everything loses its meaning.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He stops. He starts from the very beginning. He loses the track even sooner.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He starts from the very beginning. He stops. He tries to hear it, but can’t.</span>
</p><p><span>He starts from the very beginning, then freezes</span> <span>at the first chord. He can’t remember. Once he used to play without sheet music before his eyes, but now his memory is blank.</span></p><p>
  <span>First chord. First chord. First. This constant repetition reminds him of something. He starts from the very beginning, lets the first E slip a semitone lower. He puts his foot down on a pedal. Bach transforms into something slow and bleak, filled with a ringing anxiety. It’s crawling through the semitones, becoming more tense and disharmonious. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Lento, rubato</span>
  </em>
  <span> — sorrowfully and messy. He’d like to keep a rhythm, but there is no rhythm, there is no tempo, there is no counterpoint, there is no melody. The only thing left is the nothingness itself. It slowly sneaks into the soul, then starts gradually destroying itself from the core, roaring, screeching, dragging everything to the ground. Seconds become tritons, tritons — augmented sevenths. The solution will never come, only more noise. His breathing is heavy. Even if he doesn’t play by the notes, that doesn’t matter anymore. Fingers hit the keys, you could hear the broken glass and crushed brick in the strings. Yes, it’s madness, but not without method. It’s different. He couldn’t understand it before, when he tried learning it for the first time. When he put down the metronome and memorized the sheet music. When his teacher told him to stop, and he indeed stopped and started from the beginning. The tension rises, music fills the room. His breathing is rapid. The strings are clanging anxiously. This music should be stripped of comfort, and yet. Now, he finally hears it. It resonates in him, it fulfills him. It brings him the relief, it brings him the pleasure, it brings him the presence, even when it quiets down to the </span>
  <em>
    <span>pianississimo</span>
  </em>
  <span> and goes back to silence.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He finishes playing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sir.” Nathalie stands in the doorway. It looks like she’s been here for a while.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gabriel hastily stands up and closes the fallboard.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re late, Nathalie.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry, it won’t happen again.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They leave the room together. He can hear the wind slamming the open window.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span>Gabriel clenches his teeth, as he notices four missed calls. He has told them countless times to call Nathalie in such cases.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He closes the book in one irritated swipe and puts it in a pile. The fable on body and soul turned out to be just an abridged version of the pharaoh parable. It is a high time he stops wasting time on reading: he has found no new information for at least half a year. And nowadays they pull something new on him during every second battle. He clearly doesn’t know enough about miraculous.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His phone buzzes again. He’s not answering. Clenching his fists, he rushes down the stairs. There is a distant hammering sound; he fixes the brooch — and it fades away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He opens the door to atelier, breathes in to say her name, but then suddenly stops himself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nathalie is at her work place, her palm leaned against her cheek, her glasses put away. She is fast asleep. He notices the peacock miraculous is still on her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His phone stops buzzing. He frowns. Without saying anything, he carefully closes the door. He goes straight to the dining room, takes a small blue blanket from one of the armchairs. It feels soft and almost weightless. He could probably go look for something better, but he isn’t sure he can find anything in his house anymore.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He returns silently, closing the door behind him with the same carefulness.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She hasn’t changed her pose. Her eyes are hidden behind her hair. He goes around the desk, covers her shoulders with the blanket, trying not to disturb her, and carefully removes the miraculous from her jacket. It slips out easily.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gabriel hurries to move away, stands back on the other side of the desk. Nathalie coughs in her sleep. Her devotion is beyond any explanation. He used to think she feels the same kind of guilt he has, but now he isn’t sure. Guilt is not enough. He himself couldn’t have bared it for so long if not for the thought of someone worth dying for.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He moves the receiver a bit to hold the line. Almost nobody uses the landline nowadays, but still.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He puts the miraculous on his hand. It seems dimmer than before. The evening light doesn’t reflect in it but instead gets swallowed up. He carefully turns it on its back. The cracks have spread since the last time. He can see them so distinctly and clearly now that it’s hard to believe there ever was a time they could carelessly brush it all aside.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This time, he thinks, must be the last.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He glances over the room, but then lowers his head abruptly, unable to bear the look of their judging eyes. This house was built to constantly remind him of his mistakes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looks out of the window, just as the car is driving through the gates. Adrien is back from his fencing lesson. Gabriel could go and talk to him right now, but there is nothing he can say.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nathalie always says everyone will be relieved, once he’ll find the courage to explain everything as it is. It looks like she truly believes it. She has all the determination he lacks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>To think of it, Nathalie is capable of more drastic actions than him. And it scares him. He doesn’t want this. If anything happens to her, there won’t be anybody around to connect him with the outside world, with other people, with Adrien. The truth is that he is helpless, when it comes to his son. He has no idea of what to do or what to say. He has no idea of what is really happening to him. He probably even has no idea of who Adrien really is now. One day he’ll finally go to his room to talk, but he won’t find his son there, only a complete stranger.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cracks are spreading. The void is growing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He breathes out. He must get back to work, but all he wants is to vanish, leaving nothing behind but the dust on the cloth. He can’t control anything anyway.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nathalie always says that there is a noticeable progress, that they are close to victory. He wants to believe her. Sometimes he even manages to convince himself that every previous defeat was a necessary step. Then she asks him what’s the plan, and Gabriel comes up with one at that exact moment, but keeps talking as if everything was calculated from the very start. But sooner or later he has to cut himself off, as he still doesn’t know the most important part.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He thought he could trick the death with an empty casket, but there is nothing in the books. Come to think of it, he is the only one left with nothing to lose and nobody to cry for him. He shivers from the mere thought.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crack are spreading. But he can still fix everything. If he keeps on trying.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Suddenly, the phone on the table rings. Gabriel jumps and hangs up the call before it rings again. He thought the line was supposed to be busy. Looks like he’s forgotten how to use the phone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Gabriel?” Her voice is sleepy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He turns to her, still holding the miraculous in his hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sir… I would like to talk to you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She straightens up in her chair, the blanket falls off her shoulders, but she catches it and fixes it. Then, she notices the brooch.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry. I should have-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, that’s my fault, I should have taken it back immediately.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He glances over the safe, then puts the miraculous in his inside pocket.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You wanted to talk about something.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s about Adrien.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She instantly notices the change in his face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t worry, I won’t insist on telling him everything again. But you two still need to talk more. He misses you a lot these days.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t answer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re so scared of this,” she looks away. “I understand what you’re trying to do, and Adrien will understand too if you explain yourself.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He tries to find words to object her. He wants it with his whole heart. But he has no idea, no skill, no right. The hammering sound comes back — like metal scratching over metal.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes,” he breathes out. “You’re right.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She relaxes a bit and leans back with a blanket still on her shoulders.</span>
</p><p><span>“So,” her voice is calm, “Adrien has a project on anthropology</span> <span>that is due tomorrow. He procrastinated throughout the previous week, and he had no time on this one, so he’ll do everything in the last evening. I said I could help, but I won’t…”</span></p><p>
  <span>“Because I will,” he finishes the sentence without even thinking about it, as if he doesn’t notice the idea doesn’t belong to him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s right. His school teacher has very low academic standards. It won’t take a lot of time.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not particularly good at anthropology.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s about music, Gabriel.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He has a piano teacher for that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“As if monsieur Vinteuil doesn’t have any better things to do on a Thursday night.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He purses his lips and nods. Every part has fallen into its place. It is somewhat delightful. But that sound is still there for some reason.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You have a point, Nathalie.” That sound, for some reason, becomes louder. “Thank you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A faint smile curls his lips, but then he turns his eyes to the portrait. The peacock miraculous is in his inner pocket. These are just temporary solutions.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I thought I had work for today.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’ll have time for it tomorrow morning.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They tried to call me a few times-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wait,” she jumps on her seat. “What’s today’s date?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She hastily puts her glasses on. Her eyes move between the computer screen and the tablet. She is nervously drumming her fingers. It’s true: the deadline is today, if you adjust for the time zone differences.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hears that hammering sound very clearly now. That is the irritation of a manager, dealing with a hard client, when his partners can’t keep a promise. He tries to ignore it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s not that bad,” she starts typing, “just send me those concepts, not necessarily the final ones.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He nods and goes to his workplace. The sound becomes even louder, soon it’ll turn into a true rage.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You can still help Adrien with that project.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t answer.</span>
</p><p><span>He opens one file after another. There’s not a single</span> <span>finished piece in this messy mix of white, green and gold. He clicks his tongue. He finds something almost presentable, it just needs a few finishing touches — changing some colors, connecting some lines. He, of course, wanted to redo it altogether. The sound reaches its culmination.</span></p><p>
  <span>“Have you find them?”</span>
</p><p><span>He stands still and clutches his</span> <span>stylus. She looks at him, waiting for him to decide. Cracks are spreading. The void is growing. The phone in his pocket buzzes once again. He must fix everything. He must return everything to its place. He spins his stylus, unable to draw a line.</span></p><p>
  <span>“Gabriel?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes. Yes, I’ll deal with everything.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She furrows her eyebrows. He turns around to the portrait and pushes the buttons.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p>
<hr/><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Gabriel moves an awl between the cracks in miraculous’s back, cleaning them from dirt. It crackles — an electric charge goes through his fingers. Fortunately, a small one. He winces, fixes his glasses and skims through the text on a tablet again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He clicks his tongue.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nooroo, turn the light brighter.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, master.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the direct light he could clearly see how unnaturally dim the gems have become. He takes out a pair of pliers from the toolbox and starts slowly extracting one from its setting. Something sparkles deep inside it once, then again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fascinating. These mechanisms are more complex than anything I could have came up with before.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As he pulls out the first gem, the miraculous starts changing between its modes. It calms down in a moment, but the brooch noticeably heats up. He moves to the next one.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Master, are you sure you’re doing it right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course I’m sure.” He looks through the text once again. “I must remove them, otherwise the core could get damaged, while I’m fixing it. We’re lucky it’s only the outside shell that’s broken. That is probably why it managed to work for so long.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He pulls the last one out and carefully moves it to a glass tray. A sparkle twinkles inside, then slowly fades away. Now the brooch is really looking like an empty vessel, devoid of color or meaning.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know, however, how much time do we really have.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He brings out the awl again. Now the material feels more fragile. When he cleans the cracks, some pieces break away, as well as the clasp. He picks them up and saves them for later. Sometimes before fixing something you must break it even more.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He cleans the rest with condensed air. The tips of his fingers feel cold, but the brooch itself keeps its temperature. He places the setting in the tongs and takes the blowtorch. Before turning it on, he looks at the text for the last time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Even now it remains insensitive to outside temperature. If I try melting it, it’ll just absorb all the heat. I know this from the bitter experience, unfortunately. It needs a catalyst, but also some sort of flux, so it won’t completely lose its form. But if I keep it under the constant heat and do as grimoire suggests…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nooroo sighs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gabriel takes a ring off, leaves it on a table, and puts on a glove. Only then he finally turns on the blowtorch. The miraculous doesn’t change a bit under the heat, not even covering in soot. Gabriel picks up a small piece of silver with pincers and places it in one of the cracks. It changes color a bit, but still — nothing happens. He holds his breath as he adds the flux, mentioned in the grimoire. He immediately feels the heat. White bubbles rise and burst. The silver casts into the crack.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Master, it worked.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gabriel can’t hold back a smile. After all the failed attempts. After all the false copies. After all the wasted hours. Finally.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s all thanks to Nathalie.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He continues the work, patching up other cracks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She was right, there is progress. I thought she was saying that just to calm me down, but now it’s finally coming together. Nothing was in vain, and it’s all thanks to her.”</span>
</p><p><span>His face is covered</span> <span>in sweat. Eyes tear up a bit from the heat.</span></p><p>
  <span>“I must find a way to thank her, like she deserves. She likes reading and, I think, modernism. That’s not enough, I know. Maybe, I should ask her first.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It looks like high temperature makes his heartbeat rise. For a moment, he notices the gems are throwing off sparks again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gabriel puts the last piece of silver in the last crack, sealing it. He turns off the blowtorch.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is she going to be fine?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In this abrupt silence Nooroo’s weak voice sounds unusually loud.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She must be. If not, I-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’ll vanish, leaving behind nothing but the dust.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know what I’ll do.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>All the rough edges are showing trough, almost like a scar tissue. He brings out a file.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There’s the only thing I can’t understand. Why does she risk so much?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He reaches out to the brooch he’s been heating just a moment ago.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It has cooled down already — returned to its natural state.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve never asked her for it, and she’s ready to give her soul to all of this.”</span>
</p><p><span>The file grits loudly. The surface under it smooths</span> <span>out.</span></p><p>
  <span>“She could have just said no before it all started. To be completely honest, when I told her the plan, I fully expected her to walk away immediately. I underestimated her.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The roughness soon vanishes in constant gritting. Gabriel goes back to the blowtorch.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And even then — she had the right to stay away. She could let me do everything on my own. Now I see I probably wouldn’t come far without her help, but still.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He solders the clasp back in no time, then shakes the glove off on the floor.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She’s doing it for you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She doesn’t think about herself at all, it seems, like she has nothing to lose. But she’s crucial in so many ways.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He takes out the file once again. The miraculous starts looking more and more like itself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Our work, our family — so many things are depending on her now. She has no right to act as if she means nothing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He puts the file back in the toolbox, and then removes a mini grinder from its case. The gems on the glass tray start to crackle again; it’s almost worrying at this point.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Her devotion, her…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t finish the sentence, as he suddenly realizes he doesn’t know what he wants to say. The grinder whirrs in his hand. The sooth dirties his fingers. As he cleans it, the miraculous reveals its true color.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Allow me to say something. I think the answer might be on the surface.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gabriel doesn’t answer. He takes one of the gems in the pliers, ready to insert it back in its place.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Have you ever thought that might be love?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gabriel is struck by an electric charge. The miraculous heats up so badly it burns his fingers. He winces, hardly managing not to let go of it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he turns back to Nooroo, his face is twisted with anger.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I didn’t ask you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He breathes in. Breathes out. Goes back to work.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he grips it, the pain is almost unnoticeable, but the thoughts remain. He tries to calm himself down. When he puts back the next gem, the miraculous starts to change between modes again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nathalie loves him. Nonsense.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He clutches the miraculous harder, as if it would help it find its form faster.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She’s doing it for Adrien, because she sees how much he had lost, because she knows what’s better. And she doesn’t leave Gabriel’s side, because…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She’s doing it for their family, because she wants to return everything to its place, because she wants to see them happy again. And that’s because…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She’s doing it for herself, because she tries to fill an emptiness in her soul with something close to her heart. She’s ready to sacrifice herself, because…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She loves him. Impossible.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He puts the last gem back. The miraculous before him is finally whole. It outshines the lamp light. Gabriel carefully picks it up and looks at its back. The cracks are gone, like there never were any. It’s fixed. He’s finally managed to put everything in its place. Just for a moment, this sweet realization calms him down.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Duusuu appears seemingly from nowhere.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yay, it feels better already!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s complete.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gabriel puts the miraculous in his inside pocket and goes to the lift. The air has heated up from all the soldering; his breathing is heavy. The thoughts don’t let go. It’s not even the first time he hears such… assumptions.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The truth is that he has never asked her. But that’s absurd either way. That can never happen. She wouldn’t do such a thing. She doesn’t have a reason. It’s impossible. It’s impossible. Adrien would understand, if he was older.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gabriel steps into the lift. The other person’s soul, on the other hand. His miraculous. No, he already knows everything for sure. Yes, he can, but he won’t do that. There is no sane reason why he should.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s absurd. Had she loved him, she would have already… never told him. He won’t do it. He won’t ever touch it. He’ll forget everything. At this very moment. At this very moment. Now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He arrives upstairs. The sun hits his eyes. The air feels cooler and fresher. He could probably listen in.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe, he won’t see anything at all: the butterfly miraculous allows him to detect the strong emotional outbursts — not to read minds precisely. He’s just worrying for no apparent reason. The nervous fever slowly goes away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She’s not in the atelier. He walks to the door.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yes, his thoughts are often not here, as he's looking outside, searching, waiting. But even then he can’t be so senseless not to notice something supposedly so obvious. They all are wrong. Adrien doesn’t know anything, and Nooroo can’t even comprehend the real human emotions. Gabriel can easily prove he’s right.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He walks through the foyer. He can hear Adrien playing the piano upstairs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He swings open the dining room doors, but then holds still — it overwhelms him in an instant; he feels it before he can comprehend it. It resonates in him; it rings in his ears. As his heart skips a beat, he reaches to the brooch under his tie. Fingers burn.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nathalie is sitting there, smiling to herself, her head leaned back. The light falls on her face, as she opens her eyes and fixes her glasses. When she notices him, her expression changes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Gabriel,” she straightens up in the chair, “has something gone wrong?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, it went perfectly. I’m just…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t finish the sentence, as he can’t recognize his own voice. He turns around to close the door.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s good.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes,” he looks back at her with a faint smile. “Yes, of course.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wants to run far away, destroy all signs of his presence, and vanish into non-existence. He wants to rush to her, hug her shoulders, and cry. He stands still. He smiles. He locks his fingers behind his back, looking for something that isn’t there.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s a big step forward.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Glad to hear. So, about our next plan…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She tries to get up, but he stops her, sits on his knees besides, and puts his hand on hers. The burns on his fingers still hurt. He once again has no idea of what he’s going to say.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh my god, Gabriel!” She takes his hand and looks at his palm. “Have you at least put them in cold water?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I- erm, yes. Of course.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She probably sees the sooth on his hands. She notices how he doesn’t know whether to look her in the eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll treat it later.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Something is wrong, isn’t it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nathalie, I’m really sorry,” he says, “that you’re going through all of this because of me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Gabriel,” her voice is clear, “that is my choice. My true, conscious choice. I meant everything I said.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you.” He dares to look up to her. A shadow falls on her face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She loves him, now there’s no doubt about that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>All the sounds become clearer: his voice, her voice, the piano piece Adrien is playing upstairs. They all make him lose his focus, but once he hears he can’t ignore them anymore.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“In that case, we should really start with a new plan.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, not right now. You haven’t recovered yet.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is it wise to slow down? I’m not weak, and there’s no immediate danger.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t want--” he pauses for a brief moment, “to take chances anymore. We need to carefully consider all the possibilities.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She smiles once again. Without realizing it, he smiles in return.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He puts the peacock miraculous in her hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’d like you to keep it in the meantime.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll take good care of it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know,” he gets up. “No need to rush anywhere, you’d better take some rest. I… should probably treat the burns.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He leaves the room and leans on the closed door. Just a moment ago, he thought he was finally fixing everything, but it all fell apart again, losing its certainty. It seems there would always be a crack nothing could fix. The guilt clutches his throat. He is supposed to feel nothing, but he can’t help it, he can’t stop it. It resonates. It rings.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Adrien is playing piano upstairs. He makes a mistake, stops, then starts again from the very beginning.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gabriel frowns.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p>
<hr/><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>The window opens. It’s cloudy outside — the sun is nowhere to be seen, only the sky, still orange from the city lights. The air has been hot and heavy all day. The recent weather is truly unbearable.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hawkmoth stands silent in the middle of the room. His body right now feels like an overtuned string.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Today is the day it must happen. He fought off the doubts and agreed with Nathalie, when she said today is the day it must happen. Afterwards nothing will matter, and what’s left he’ll take to his grave.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s all set up and ready, Hawkmoth. Time to take the next step.”</span>
</p><p><span>Lightning flashes. Mayura. For a moment, he sees her face very clearly. He would like to know whether she really has changed so much or is it just the</span> <span>play of light.</span></p><p>
  <span>“Good news.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It took some trying, but Ladybug and Chat Noir are finally where they want them to be. It’ll take some time for them to realize the previous akuma has already been set free.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mayura comes closer. Butterflies fly in every direction. One of them lands in Hawkmoth’s hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Thunder roars. The storm is somewhere far away, but it doesn’t feel like that for some reason. He can’t understand why. If only he could stop time for a moment, if only he could look at everything from the outside, he would see. He would see somebody else at his place.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lightning flashes. Now they are staying pretty close to each other. She holds out her closed fan. A butterfly darkens in his hands.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I give you…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Out of nowhere comes the overwhelming fatigue. The doubts return. He forgets all the words. He feels dizzy. Thunder roars. The pause is shorter now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nathalie, I give you… Damn…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you alright?” She holds his forearm.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, it’s fine.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The air is hot and heavy; it must end sooner or later. Sooner or later, it must come. Some finality. Some relief.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He straightens up and lets out the akuma before anything undesirable could happen. Her fan blackens.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Midnight Mayura, I give you the power to build from multiple emotions at the same time. Now nothing limits your creativity.”</span>
</p><p><span>Lightning flashes. The transformation hasn’t changed her much. She remains the way she wants to be. She lets out an amok into his cane while still holding his arm. A dark cluster</span> <span>forms above their heads.</span></p><p>
  <span>“Help me with this,” her voice is calm.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He tries to focus and reduce his doubts, tries to see only her determination, her certainty. He tries to feel the way she feels. All the things he can’t name. Damn, she probably knows everything now. Damn, she probably sees things clearer than him. No, he has no right to. That is not what is supposed to happen. It all comes to him at once: this fear, this fatigue, this relief, this joy, this desperation. He shouldn’t have let her know, now she’ll have doubts too. That shouldn’t have happened. That shouldn’t have. That shouldn’t have. Thunder roars.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then she suddenly staggers, leans on his arm. The dark cluster dissolves itself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nathalie, oh god…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hugs her shoulders, keeping her from falling. She lowers her head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This was a mistake. We’ll wait for another chance.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, don’t you dare.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can’t allow-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lightning flashes. He sees her smiling.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Everything is fine now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nooroo, dark w-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She doesn’t let him finish. She puts a finger to his lips. He doesn’t protest. Thunder roars.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Please, wait. At least for a bit.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Let us sit down.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They sit down on the floor. He’s still holding her shoulders.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you know the pharaoh parable?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He knows, but she proceeds to tell it anyway, and he can’t recognize a single word from it. She retells it thoroughly, without leaving out any details or avoiding the interpretation. Her voice is confident and silvery. The sheer sound of it changes everything — the pharaoh, the death, the empty casket. He realizes how wrong all of his guesses were: he was standing in the dark room and thought he was trapped, but then the window swung open, and he saw that the hall was spacious and the world was endless. He can’t be sure now. All the things around are — questions. All the people around are — questions. The storm is so close it hurts.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lightning flashes. He can’t take his eyes off her. Thunder roars.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She ends the story. She touches his check.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you see now?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lightning flashes. Thunder roars. He sees her eyes are full of tears and hope.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They move in closer. He used to fear this moment, used to close his eyes and cover his ears. She, however, never left his side and kept on asking.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The questions swarm in his mind. Why couldn’t he understand anything earlier? Why did he always hurt those he loved most? Why did he think he was the one to trick death?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He leans in. He kisses her.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>What am I doing? What am I doing?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>The rain taps on the metal roof.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. The Empty Casket</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>
    <span>You don’t put your hand on a burner, if you know it’s about to turn on.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nathalie Sancoeur was always a sensible woman. She never joined a cause if she couldn’t guarantee its success. That’s what, for the longest time, helped her to remain out of trouble and safe from the endless stress of human relationships. Those few mistakes she did actually make taught her very well.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Let the brave ones die on the barricades. You wouldn’t want to be the bride of the wind.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p><span>She learned to wait. It was her main social survival strategy. She let the careless ones go forward, lose their minds in quick outbursts of passions, as she observed them from backstage. If there was a good opportunity, she would leave. If there was a better one, she would stay. The truth was that the people like her were always needed — someone who could offer a</span> <span>rational take on the situation from the outside, who would remain calm and collected in the face of a storm. Of course, everything had its price. There was, among other things, one word everyone knew, but she had to forget. After all, she was a sensible one and never bothered others with her problems. She put everything in the casket, closed the lid, buried it six feet under, and cast the grave in concrete. She grieved a bit but only for appearance’s sake, so nobody would know it was long empty. She even quit reading the poetry she liked in university, as the hyperbolized depictions of feelings only muddied her perception of reality. Even Rimbaud — the Poet among poets — had to admit his mistakes.</span></p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>You don’t start writing poems, knowing Verlaine will shoot at you.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>At first, she thought she got very lucky with this job. Her employer, Gabriel Agreste, had a similar sensibility and an empty casket of his own, only carried on other people’s shoulders this time. It was easy to find common ground with him, as easy as projecting herself onto him. All in all, the only real difference between them was his happy family. His wife was a noble simplicity and quiet grandeur. Their son was growing up to be the best of men. They were like a portrait of a family in an interior — nothing excessive, nothing too complicated. Looking at that portrait, in a sense, brought tranquility. Agrestes were the only people she didn’t find exhausting. That was why, when all old friends vanished from her life and distant relatives stopped annoying her with calls, she started taking on herself more than was in her job description just to be among them more often. She was spending her life in observation of their joy, their well-being, their bravery. She got invested so much she almost forgot.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Brave ones die on the barricades.<br/>
</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It didn’t collapse all in once. First there were long months of vain warnings and false hopes, all spent in futile attempts to fix anything. The truth was that they exhausted their options even before… well, it collapsed. And she was standing aside, watching. She saw that he wanted to cry but couldn’t.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>For a while, Gabriel Agreste kept up appearances, insisted that not everything was lost, and they just needed to keep this a secret for a little longer before he would for sure fix everything. He burned away very quickly, however. All that was left was an empty shell he was meant to be. She wanted to leave, but she stayed. Partly because she thought he was bound to come back to his sensibility eventually. Partly because leaving Adrien at that time would certainly ruin the boy’s life.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She continued to upkeep the illusion of stability. She organized schedules, arranged meetings, and helped Adrien with homeschooling. It wasn’t long before she realized that, for the first time since school, she had made a mistake.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nathalie remembered that moment very vividly. She entered the atelier with a tablet in her right hand. Gabriel was at his workplace; his attention focused entirely on the portrait. He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sir, your new prescription glasses should arrive before the end of the day.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She closed the door behind her, took a step to her desk, but then something compelled her to stop, look into Gabriel Agreste’s eyes and ask:</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Can I know what you are thinking about?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Then he turned to her, the morning sun whitened his suit. At once, he straightened his shoulders and put his hands behind his back. There wasn’t a shadow of a doubt on his face.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ve decided, Nathalie. Those two miraculouses are our only solution, so I must have them at all cost.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Is that about the Egyptian collection?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes.” His voice was so calm and confident. How long was he thinking about this? “I can’t find them on my own, however. I have neither the resources nor the time. Not to mention they’re certainly not in Tibet anymore. So I need to lead them to Paris, to draw their attention somehow.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Not so long ago, she helped him to clear the room in the attic. So that’s what it was for. All her previous experience suggested it was better to run away from situations like these as soon as possible, before it was time to make any choices.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“If I wreak enough havoc, it’ll be international news. They’ll have to hear me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And the consequences?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Won’t matter. Anyone who holds the power of both of those miraculouses can change the fabric of reality itself. Whatever happens, it won’t matter in the slightest.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He didn’t have to explain anything to her. She saw him preparing and heard him talking to himself, when he thought there was nobody around. She suspected this might happen, she just, as it often happens, didn’t want to think.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But then something unordinary occured. He didn’t ask for anything, didn’t beg, didn’t try to excuse himself or convince her to join. He offered her a narrative — a very simple one at that, composed of old and familiar tropes, but nonetheless compelling. He cut the ending abruptly, excluding the explanation. She for once didn’t need one.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I understand,” she said.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And she wholeheartedly believed that at the time.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>However, when he disappeared under the floor, she grasped her head. What exactly was she planning to do? And, what was more important, why?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She tried to calm herself down with thoughts about distant things.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>For example, Klimt. He was a shard of that golden age — </span>
  <em>
    <span>la Belle Époque</span>
  </em>
  <span>, when everything was simpler and clearer. Old and noble Vienna, enraptured in its art and its culture, didn’t suspect that soon the war would come and take it all away, leaving behind nothing but fear, terror and expressionism. Klimt himself had died, not knowing what horror awaited the world. It just so happened his paintings had seen more misery than him. You can’t blame him for that, though. If he could, he’d probably gave away everything just to bring back all those literature festivals, high-toned small talk, safety of Vienna cafés, petty drama of Paris Salons.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Wasn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>la Belle Époque</span>
  </em>
  <span> worth bringing back? The time it was a simple job in a simple family?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nathalie fixed her glasses and sighed. She would do what she always did — exactly what she was told to. It was almost ten AM, so she went upstairs to Adrien’s room and knocked on the door. There was no answer, so she went in. Her heart skipped a beat. The window was open and there was no sign of Adrien. She called out to him once again, but didn’t get an answer. Clenching her teeth, she ran down the stairs. She needed no explanation. She understood them better than they understood themselves.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>In ten minutes or so, Adrien was already in the car, arms crossed on his chest. He silently looked at the school entrance, as they drove off. Nathalie felt she needed to say something.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Please put your seatbelt on.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They were almost there anyway, but she had a duty now. “Keep Adrien safe and out of this.” It seemed simple enough. Unfortunately, he was 13, and he had decided everything already. The source of his stubbornness wasn’t that hard to pinpoint.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She learned of his defeat from a phone notification. She waited for Gabriel’s return with a heavy heart. Considering how sure he was in his victory, she could only imagine how disappointed he felt. But he came back and seemed undisturbed. He immediately asked something about business matters, as if nothing happened.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Only when she found courage to ask him directly, his eyes lightened up and a wide grin appeared on his face.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“They’ve actually come, just as I said. Now it’s only a matter of time.”</span>
</p>
<p><span>Soon he collected himself</span> <span>and got back to work. She was silently looking at him for some time; she wanted to say something, but didn’t dare to.</span></p>
<p>
  <span>It was almost certain that Adrien would run off again. All signs were there: how he closed himself in his room, how he didn’t answer, when she tried to talk, how he asked for more food than usual and then didn’t eat any of it. She knew those symptoms all too well and understood that, if nothing was done, this would only get worse for him. But was it even in her power to decide anything?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>So, he ran off again, and she again caught up to him right in time.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Tell him you couldn’t find me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That would be not only a lie, but also a direct betrayal of her duties. So why did she hesitate?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Nathalie, please.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She watched him going inside the school. She tightened her lips, got back in the car, and said she would handle everything.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was only a day and she already failed. “Keep Adrien safe and out of this.” </span>
  <em>
    <span>Safe and out.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Couldn’t he hear the contradiction in his own words? How exactly was he hoping to keep his son the next room and never tell him the truth?</span>
</p>
<p><span>There was, of course, a rational solution. She could explain everything to him, lay out all the options, force him to choose (though the question would already contain the answer). </span><em><span>Collège</span></em> <em><span>Françoise Dupont</span></em><span>, all things considered, handled the akuma attack professionally enough, so they could guarantee Adrien’s safety. He would go to the same class as Chloe, so his social circle wouldn’t change as much. The quality of education would certainly suffer, but there wasn’t anything he couldn’t compensate for. Adrien wouldn’t be left alone with his thoughts anymore, and, maybe, that unbearable dread and fear before the future would bypass him altogether. But what was more important — this was the only way to keep Gabriel’s secrets from him. If Gabriel really resented telling the truth that much, he could only agree to her proposal.</span></p>
<p>
  <span>Fortunately, he wasn’t in the room when she returned from the school. On her way, she’d already developed some back-up plans just in case. It was time for the hardest part. She stopped for a moment to process all that happened in those two days and built up the courage. She sighed and called his “emergency” number.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sir, I would like to talk to you. It’s about Adrien.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He came almost immediately. Then he clutched his fists and almost went back there as soon as she said his son was in school. She didn’t lose her calm, though. She described the situation as it was. She talked and he listened. When she asked the key question, he frowned and tightened his lips. Gabriel Agreste agreed. Not without a fight, but he agreed. She could clearly see that deep inside he knew she was right.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As he disappeared under the floor again, she let out a breath. Only then she noticed she was shaking. How had she even dared to? Why? For what? She set down to figure out Adrien’s new schedule, trying to think about </span>
  <em>
    <span>la Belle Époque</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Gabriel’s new glasses came in only on the next morning. The courier apologized and said there were “unforeseen issues.” When she brought them to Gabriel, he mumbled a thank-you, but for what exactly?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Adrien was officially accepted to school, with real documents this time. He looked at her with his bright eyes and also thanked her. She averted her gaze.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It rained that day for the first time in many unbearably dry weeks. She was watching the raindrops rolling down the glass and thinking, maybe, something could actually change for the better.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Only when she came back home, she noticed she was still shaking a bit. Those three days felt like a month or even two. She opened the window wide and just stood there for some time, breathing in cool air, watching the lights in Agreste mansion turn off one by one. The long-forgotten fear twisted her guts: for the first time in many years, she didn’t know what the future held.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She needed to regain her focus, put everything back in its place. She looked through the old contact list — friends from school and university, whose names she’d forgotten; ex-colleagues, whose faces she couldn’t stand; distant relatives, whose voices she would rather never hear again. She put it aside, as soon as she realized none of them would help her with anything.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That’s when she finally decided to return to the literature. She came to the bookshelf, chose one random book and blew the dust off it. She didn’t have time for rereading, so she was just skimming through the pages, remembering the content, staring into the space between the lines, waiting for an epiphany.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Epiphany never came, but little by little, came the understanding.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ve found this in my place. Thought you might be interested.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She put a plain book of Camus’s selected works on Adrien’s desk. Monotone cloth cover was a bit worn off on the corners.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Thank you, Nathalie.” He smiled, then opened the book on the title page. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>The Stranger</span>
  </em>
  <span>… I don’t know. Isn’t it supposed to be, like, very intense?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Maybe, you’re right, but I’d like you to keep it. You can read it, when you feel older.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>On the other hand, wasn’t 13 years supposed to be the only age when you can take the existentialists seriously? She didn’t know whether he tried reading it, only noticed that the book laid on his desk for a while, pressed under </span>
  <em>
    <span>Biology 2</span>
  </em>
  <span>, before moving to one of the middle shelves, between </span>
  <em>
    <span>Phantom of the Opera</span>
  </em>
  <span> and </span>
  <em>
    <span>Modern French History</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She hoped she could at least prepare him for the inevitable moment, when everything would finally surface, but was forced to once again remind herself that this was their own business. She was already doing too much. She had already made this job too hard for herself.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nathalie well knew that a frame wasn’t a part of a portrait. It could be very reliable and nice and hang there from the very beginning. But when the Nazis barge into the house, they break the frame and take only the canvas.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>So the only thing left for her was to hug her knees and, as the surrounding chaos grew louder and stronger, wonder about the motivations of Gabriel Agreste.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It is only natural that when you, for the first time in years, are left alone with your emptiness, it very quickly consumes you from the inside. The moral boundaries blur, and the empathy becomes not an instinct but a hard, unliftable work, so soon enough you become estranged, forget about everyone and leave your life in the hands of fate and weather. However, still having some principals left, you decide to act honorably and choose the end that would justify the means.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That was her first interpretation of Gabriel Agreste. When she opened her eyes, she was already back at her desk. She went on with her work, as if nothing happened. Just as he promised, nothing mattered.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>This thought helped her sleep at night.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>However, one day she came to the mansion a little later than usual. There was no sign of him in the atelier, and all the doors were opened wide for no apparent reason. She could hear someone playing the piano in Adrien’s room, but at first she didn’t even realize that it was music. The composition was chaotic and meaningless, it reminded her of something from her university years, when she still believed in avant-garde and revolution. But then she went upstairs and saw him playing.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She just stood there, unable to interrupt him. His expression softened and his posture relaxed. The way he was playing — the tranquility of his face and the confidence in his hands — made Scelsi into music. She was listening to it, trying to understand what did she overlook? What had really changed in him and had anything changed at all?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sir.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Only then he noticed her. He was taken by surprise, but quickly returned to his usual state — serious and sorrowful. However, she saw his eyes sparkling.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When she came back home that evening, she listened to all the Scelsi records she could find, but none of them sounded the same. She looked out the window: it was already dark outside, but she saw a light in a single second-floor window of Agreste mansion. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The first time she saw him as Hawkmoth was almost incidental. She went up there to inform him about something that seemed important at the time.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The sun was setting. He stood there in the light, taller and more confident. The mask made his face sharper, more definite, as if all his features were cut out with precision and intention. She could no longer find his usual sorrowfulness in his eyes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She explained what the urgency was. Her voice was trembling. For a moment, she thought he could get angry; she felt she saw something she shouldn’t have. But he listened to her, smirking, then laughed.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I think that problem might solve itself right about now!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>For some reason, a smile curled her lips.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She was ready to leave, but he stopped her for a moment. He came closer and carefully removed a butterfly that stuck in her hair. Having nothing to say, she nodded.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When she returned to her desk, all that was left to do was to lean back, stare at the ceiling and half-listen to what they were saying on the news. She thought a lot about this. Was it always in him? Could a single event, no matter how devastating, really change a person that much? She started to pay some attention. If he didn’t want this, why was he trying so hard? She opened a video full screen, trying to follow the chaos of the battle. If he wanted this, why wasn’t he trying hard enough? The defeat was inevitable, as usual. She sighed. It was possible to be done with all that in two weeks, it just needed a little thought.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Was it always in her?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Then she frowned. No. She wouldn’t do more than she needed to do.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Although, she went to the lair a few times after that, when he wasn’t in there. Sometimes he needed her to bring something there or to take something away. And every time she stayed there for a little longer, looking for the signs of his presence. She imagined the shadow he cast, when the window opened. She imagined him standing there and talking to himself.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>In moments like these, she felt as if she understood everything.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When you are used to suppressing your will, the moment of disaster suddenly opens your eyes on the instability of social norms. After freeing yourself from the burden of taking a blame for yourself, for the first time in your life, you start blaming others. All their thoughts and feelings lose their value in your eyes, so the only thing that remains is the bitter irony. However, still being a conscious person, you stream that energy into a productive cause, create some sort of a safe space for yourself and find ways to hide your identity. You know this will eventually end. You don’t go to hell willingly, if you’re not sure this will only last for a season.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That was her second interpretation of Gabriel Agreste.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Soon enough, however, he surpassed all her expectations once again. It was one thing to unintentionally send a villain after himself, but it was another to keep saying you calculated all risks, when the angry mob was already at the doorstep. She could only crawl out of their way and hope for the best. As they dragged him away, she hugged her knees and closed her eyes. He was a sensible man, right? He knew what he was doing, right? But then she opened the news broadcast and realized that the answer was no. At her first opportunity, she got in the car and drove right to the studio, praying she was wrong, the worst didn’t happen, and he’d actually planned everything in advance.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When she arrived, everything was already over. Gabriel was standing by the main entrance. He wasn’t even surprised that she came before he’d even called her. He calmly got in the back seat, not saying anything and not looking her in the eyes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sir,” she was barely keeping herself collected, “that was very risky.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The risk is justified.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She raised her eyebrows and tightened her lips.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’ve almost died.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She looked into the rearview mirror, waiting for him to wince or shake or get angry or at least frown. But his gaze was averted and his face remained indifferent.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That doesn’t matter.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nathalie pressed the gas pedal. </span>
  <em>
    <span>That doesn’t matter</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he said, </span>
  <em>
    <span>that doesn’t matter</span>
  </em>
  <span>. She was hoping at least his hands were shaking at that moment. Was </span>
  <em>
    <span>la Belle Époque </span>
  </em>
  <span>really worth this?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You can leave home early today.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Are you sure you can handle this?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The tone of his voice was unreadable. She didn’t know whether she should take his word for it, but she didn’t say anything.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Was </span>
  <em>
    <span>la Belle Époque </span>
  </em>
  <span>really worth dying for?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When Nathalie came back home, she immediately opened </span>
  <em>
    <span>The Myth of Sisyphus</span>
  </em>
  <span>, stared at a table of contents for some time, then suddenly threw the book away in anger. When she looked out the window, she saw that Adrien’s classmate — what was her name? — at the mansion gates. It wasn’t the first time she saw her wandering around here or standing aside, observing, waiting.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nathalie couldn’t sleep that night. She laid in bed, stared at the ceiling and thought about things worth dying for.</span>
</p>
<p><span>“I don’t get him.” Adrien was fumbling</span> <span>with a seatbelt, unable to find a comfortable position. “One minute he’s seems like he’s doing better, but then he gets back into his usual moods.”</span></p>
<p>
  <span>The car stopped at the crossroad. Nathalie sighed silently.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He tries.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t seem him try.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She wanted to explain everything to him, but couldn’t. All the words turned out to be wrong.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He doesn’t let me leave the house, and never talks to me. Does he hate me?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Of course not. Your father loves you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He crossed his arms on his chest.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“But he still won’t let me go out, right? Go to my friend’s house on Saturday?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She had nothing to say on that.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Please, it’s better when you talk to him. When you ask, he’s more likely to agree.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She averted her eyes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>At that moment, Nathalie suddenly realized that she was the only person in the whole world, in whose life Gabriel Agreste was actually present.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She felt something had been pulling her there. Something was forcing her away from the margins and closer to the center.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And it scared her, and it shook her. She herself was sick of her own weakness, but she must have admitted — she would have never dared to do anything brave, especially when the future seemed so unclear and dark. If she really was the only one who could decide anything, then… then what?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She tried to distract herself and think about Klimt’s two Judiths.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Judith I</span>
  </em>
  <span> was proud and fearless. Her posture was straight, her expression was elegant and triumphant. She was almost smiling. But </span>
  <em>
    <span>Judith II</span>
  </em>
  <span> looked as if she never had any of that. Her tired eyes were looking away. Her body, unable to cope with its own tension, was falling apart. The severed head, which was almost unnoticeable on the first painting, had fallen out of her hands and left a bloody trail behind. Was she still the same Judith? Or, maybe, there were two of them? The second one just involuntarily happened to take the place of the first.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>All in all, it was true. When she asked, he agreed. But why? Was it supposed to be this way?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t properly formulate her third interpretation of Gabriel Agreste.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>One night she was awakened by the sound of a moth hitting the glass.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She stood up, opened the window right beside it, and went back to bed. It went on. Sometimes it took pauses; sometimes she could hear its wings rustling in the curtains; sometimes it stopped for a while and seemed ready to flew away to freedom, but then it once again threw its small body against the glass.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She didn’t even notice how she fell asleep. When she woke up in the morning, the moth was lying dead on the floor.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>At first, that event made no impression on her, but then she went to work and all kinds of thoughts followed.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She should have gotten up, caught it and released it outside. She should have gently pushed it in the right direction. Maybe, it wouldn’t survive outside anyway, but at least then there would be the slightest hope. And now its lifeless body was just lying on her bedroom floor, and she didn’t even have a decency to put it away.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You look worried, Nathalie.”</span>
</p>
<p><span>“Really?” She returned</span> <span>to her regular composed expression. “I’m fine, sir. Nothing serious.”</span></p>
<p>
  <span>Gabriel went back to working, but she stared at him for a while. She wanted to ask him outright, but she didn’t dare to. Instead, in the evening she came to her bookshelf once again to look for answers there.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>On the lowest shelf sat a small pile of art books. She had the courage to borrow a few from the mansion a few years back. Nobody read them anyway, so she felt like nobody would notice. She took the top one from the pile — that was Munch.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It felt appropriate: Munch also had a lot of things that had kept their shape, but had lost their wholeness.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She was turning over the heavy glanced pages. One painting caught her attention. A woman in white looked away. Her face was mostly hidden, her silhouette seemed distant and blurred. A woman in red stood at the center with her arms behind her back. She was almost smiling. Considering the common symbols of that period, it was safe to assume that the woman in white was the truth, and the woman in red was the lie. But Munch hadn’t called it </span>
  <em>
    <span>Truth and Lie</span>
  </em>
  <span>, only </span>
  <em>
    <span>Red and White</span>
  </em>
  <span>. If you are brave enough, however, you can interpret it however you want.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She decided to return the album back to Agrestes. What if that was the time they actually needed it?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But right when she was about to just leave it on the foyer coffee table, Adrien approached her out of nowhere.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Is it also one of yours, Nathalie?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She looked down, startled.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No, that’s…erm, one of yours.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Really? I’ve never seen it before.” He came closer. She showed him the cover. “Yeah, Munch, I remember you told me, but I’d never thought dad likes that kind of art.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, he actually likes a lot of different things.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She was almost sure this art book still had plastic wrapping on, when she’d taken it from here.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Have you ever listened to Scelsi?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Maybe, she could change something after all. Maybe, it wasn’t as scary as it seemed. Her role was that of a messenger, a mediator. They could sort their things out themselves, all they needed was a gentle push in the right direction.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A frame wasn’t a part of a portrait, but it still had its functions, for instance: keeping things together and in place.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She watched them playing Schubert for four hands. Gabriel’s posture tensed up for a bit, but then gradually relaxed, as the initial panic vanished, and he let himself remember. Automatism, that made every mistake painfully noticeable, disappeared from Adrien’s play, and instead returned his child-like lightness. She wished the music could last without changing. She wished the sun could stop right there in eternal sunset, and she could dissolve in the sound of their harmony. For the first time, she believed things could really change for the better.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As Adrien left the room, Gabriel stayed at his place, staring blankly at the keyboard. It seemed the past anxieties were coming back.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She came to him and put her hand on his shoulder. She smiled and he faintly smiled back. She wanted to tell him that the hope was still there, but didn’t say anything. A word would be a violence in this holy silence.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She was a mediator. She was a messenger. Her interference appeared to be not as scary and dramatic as she thought. Usually, her mere presence was enough. The wounds can heal on their own.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Little by little, she regained her confidence and her calm.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She looked at Gabriel and saw the clarity coming back to his eyes. Did she just imagine it then? Was it just a play of light? She didn’t think of that at the time. The mere idea of his happiness brought her enough hope for the future.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>So she did what she needed to. She organized schedules and arranged meetings. She executed orders and conveyed messages. She answered the calls and signed mail with his name. She worked, and </span>
  <em>
    <span>la Belle Époque</span>
  </em>
  <span> had her eyes on her.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But when she came home and fell on her bed, the strange thoughts swarmed in her mind even more. She wasn’t sleeping, but instead walking around the room and thinking through the plans that could never came to fruition. Were her eyes sparkling then?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A dream came to her every night. In it, she wasn’t the bride but the wind.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Was it always in her? These dreams? This blind faith? This devotion?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When he asked her, she agreed.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There still, of course, was that word everyone knew but she had forgotten. This was just her function. A mediator. A messenger. She didn’t do anything he couldn’t do himself. A frame. An empty casket. Was Gabriel really the same as her, when he talked to himself in the dark? When he opened the dictionary to try reading the parable in Old French? When he made a terrible mistake, so he closed his eyes and prayed this would finally be the time after which nothing would truly matter?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The risk is too great. It can’t go on like this anymore...”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She hugged him from the back, she laid her hands on his chest.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Munch has a painting. He called it </span>
  <em>
    <span>Love and Pain</span>
  </em>
  <span>. On it, a man cries on the woman’s chest, and she kisses his neck.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>At that moment, she really thought it was over.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I can’t give up, Nathalie. I love her too much.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I understand,” she said, “sir.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She left the room and leaned on the closed door.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Did she really understand then where all that pain and all those doubts came from? That the word was “love,” and she had never truly forgotten it?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>On her way home, she saw Adrien’s friend again. She was so obvious it hurt, but Nathalie didn’t say anything to her.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She walked up the stairs. She turned the key. She closed the door behind her. She grasped her head and tried to pull herself back together.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>What did she really want? And what did she hope for?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Was it to stay aside? In that case, she would have left long before this.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Was it to fix everything? Well, it was never in her ability to do so. Gabriel was the only one who could, but he hadn’t yet realized what was broken.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The longer she thought, the more she saw that the metaphors she used to describe the situation with had no sense. She couldn’t be an observer, a frame and a mediator at the same time. And what was that ultimate choice she was so afraid to make all about? Hadn’t it happened already? If it was the right one, where was the feeling of relief? Where was the validation?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>No, Sartre made a mistake, when he tried to defend existentialism as humanism. It was impossible to overcome the inherent egoism of a notion that there’s no morality and only you can decide what’s right. You can’t choose both yourself and humanity. Maybe, this fundamental contradiction is what caused his blindness to Soviet crimes. Fortunately, Camus had a different opinion on the matter.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She went to the shelf. She remembered having the right books, but she couldn’t find anything. The titles blurred before her eyes. Her fingers went through the spines indiscriminately.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She herself didn’t notice how she picked Rimbaud and started reading for what seemed to be the first time in never. She couldn’t recognize a single word from it. She remembered the collection was about the poet who started his journey weak and angry, but returned from it with new-found strength. But that wasn’t it. There was a soul that descended to hell and stayed there for no other reason but love.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>So that’s how it was. Nathalie wiped away the tear before it fell.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There was no scenario in which everyone would be happy. There was no right choice, so she dared to make a true one.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Gabriel Agreste continued to throw the dice, as if it would abolish chance. He needed a rational solution, and Nathalie was the only one who could provide one.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She sat there for a bit, silently staring at the ceiling. When her thoughts calmed down and her eyes dried up, she straightened up, fixed her glasses and started developing a plan.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Adrien took a small white book from her hand.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, Rimbaud. I’ve read a bit.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Really? Did you like it?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, but he can be very angry sometimes.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nathalie shrugged. That was partially true. She hoped Adrien would understand the rest when he finished reading. Maybe, they could discuss it in detail one day.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The question wasn’t why did Rimbaud start writing poetry, if he knew it wouldn’t end well. But rather would he send it to Verlaine, if he knew that he would shoot at him? And what if there was the slightest chance that somewhere somewhen at least one of them could be happy?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was time for the hardest part. She stopped in front of the atelier door. The fear didn’t disappear completely. The thought about the margins and the observation crossed her mind just for a brief moment, but then she looked around and saw that backstage remained long behind. She already was in the center of the stage, so what was that last step worth, if the spotlight was about to point at her anyway?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nathalie walked in. Gabriel was at his usual place. The sun was reflecting in his glasses; his face expression was unreadable.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She focused, went to her desk. As she sat down, she removed her glasses not to see his reaction outright. When everything around her lost its shape, it became much easier to talk.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sir, your miraculous grants wishes, that’s right?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes,” his tone was a bit confused.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So if I’m wishing for something really badly, the akuma will give me what I need, won’t it? What if, for example, I want to give more power to you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He moved closer. His image slowly came into view before her. Now she saw nothing but him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You don’t have to… You shouldn’t do it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s what I really want.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He folded his arms on his chest.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s not so simple. Under the akuma’s influence, it’s really hard to keep control. Your slightest whim becomes a hyperfixation. In a state like this, it’s impossible to think straight.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She barely kept herself from rolling her eyes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“But this could work, right? If that’s what both of us want, there is only one possible result. That could be the base for a very solid plan.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>For a moment — just for a moment — he frowned, but then his eyes lightened up.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Heroes day.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s right.” She could barely hold back a smile.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s still risky.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We won’t even need to leave the house. Think about it, you have all the chances to win.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He pursed his lips. He stayed silent for a few seconds, as if really thinking it through.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fine, we’ll talk about it just…” he took a quick look at the door, “…not here.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That day was the first time she went there with him. She knew there was no coming back after this, but she reminded herself about the catalyst principle: platinum plate is present during the reaction between oxygen and sulphur dioxide, but it itself doesn’t change.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The days passed as planned. She doubted her choice less and less. Of course, it was risky: he insisted on being right at the epicenter. But, all in all, she didn’t protest. At the time, it really seemed like he was right.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hawkmoth’s face was in front of her, cast in shadows. It looked so much like Gabriel at the moment, so much like his usual sorrowfulness, even though — she had heard it — he had laughed just a moment ago.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He held her hand. Gabriel was right. When the dark shroud fell from her eyes, it all became clearer than it ever was. She held his hand.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The city drowned in the ultimate chaos, but she knew for sure that they all didn’t matter.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Everything went as planned. She stood aside. She observed. The things were the way they were supposed to be. It already felt like the good old times. There were no more doubts — the simplicity and straightforwardness had finally returned.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She didn’t even notice the first crack, and then the connection was abruptly cut.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She grasped her head. All the thoughts- The solution- She barely could keep up. She couldn’t keep up.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She should have- She must have-</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She saw nothing but-</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The right combination- Her hands remembered better than-</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>If she failed-</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>No, she mustn’t- She must-</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Why did the right words immediately come up in her mind?</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>This is the moment. She feels her own presence so definitely clear. All her body now feels the most real it has ever been. Every little detail has its intention.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His soul comes into focus before her.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And she suddenly sees it all — his desperation, his sorrow, his doubts, and even the things he himself doesn’t dare to see. He is right there. He is open, like a book, like a text on the page. There, at the very bottom of his heart, a moth is hitting the glass lid of an empty casket.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She can’t hold back the smile.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He is scared and tired, but she comes to comfort him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A man cries on a woman’s shoulder; she kisses his neck.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She builds its wings of grief and despair. With every next flap, he becomes bigger and stronger, until he breaks out. It’s just like it should be; it’s just like she wants it to be.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She returns him back, as soon as the real danger passes. She doesn’t want to, but she understands that she doesn’t have much time. And even despite this…</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Duusu, fall my feathers.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nathalie walks away from the window. There’s a wide grin on her face. She coughs, but she keeps smiling. She just saved him. On her own. She feels dizzy.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The butterflies fly in every direction. She slowly sits down on the floor.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She grasps her head, runs her finger through her hair. Now she remembers there has never been a time she could explain herself. That sometimes a judgment is just built on a false assessment. That the language is limited and the translation is always imperfect: an “empty casket” may as well be a “pure soul.” Oh, who is she trying to fool? It was never empty to begin with.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A frame isn’t a part of a portrait, and so what? Oh god, Gabriel doesn’t even draw portraits in frames.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A voice she hasn’t heard in a while asks her:</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Are you okay?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The past seems so distant and unreal. Oh, she really can’t understand anyone fully. She can only watch and see. The image before her eyes blurs.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m fine.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She can’t hear what she’s saying. She forgets all the words, except for one.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m fine.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She can’t stop smiling. She feels a strange faint pain in her back.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m not.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She smiles.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>What am I doing? What am I doing?</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A tear rolls down her cheek.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p><hr/>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Gabriel arrives shortly. His breathing is heavy; his clothes are disordered. He bends over to her. There’s a concern in his eyes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nathalie says she’s fine. She gets up, holding onto a wall, but her legs can’t support her.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He catches her. She embraces his neck and presses her head against his shoulder. She says she can walk, but he ends up carrying her in his arms.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When they stand on the lift platform, he holds her closer to his chest.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>If you listen, you can hear it beating.</span>
  </em>
</p>
  </div></div>
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